


I will love you (without any strings attached)

by prettybrilliantfunny



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Blood Magic, Blood Pacts, Campaign 2 (Critical Role), M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-03-07 08:44:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18869740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettybrilliantfunny/pseuds/prettybrilliantfunny
Summary: Maybe if Fjord hadn’t held out his hand; if he hadn’t run the falchion across his palm like a promise; if he hadn’t looked at Caleb like that...But he had.  And blood magic was not easily undone.





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

_“This is more your thing than mine.”_

 

When they rebounded to the surface at last, breaking the waves to breathe in blessed, crisp air--he knew for certain what they had done.  In the chaos and the rush of adrenaline--foreign thoughts and emotions tumbling against his own--Caleb _acted_.  If there was ever a reason to be grateful for Trent Ikithon, perhaps this was it.  After years under his thumb and another decade spent hiding himself in every way possible, Caleb had become exceptionally gifted at balancing magical energies. And at warding them.

He did it now. Even as he fumbled his footing to match Caduceus’ waterwalk spell, his mind was turned inward.  

_“Aren’t you the least bit curious?”_

Caleb knew his own magic. It was golden. Warm.  A constant in his life since he was a child, unsure of what it was that made him different, only that he could see the possibilities in the flowers outside his window and the smooth stones that lined the path to their house.  A power he could draw on in the long Zemnian dark.

All things depending, it moved through him -- small and infinite like motes of dust -- pooling where needed.  High in his throat and into the space behind his forehead; the place where language lived and could be comprehended.  In a concentrated line it became an arrow, shot through his forearm; across both palms, a wall of fire.

_“I am always curious.”_

His own words echoed back to him--distorted and distant. (He was not the only one whose thoughts were still on Diver’s Grave.)

The realization sparked something wild in him, a bright shine of emotion (his own) like sun catching on a gold coin. But there was fear also; a terror rising in him at what they’d done, at how easily he bent himself toward the sounds and feelings that were not his own (and yet, they were there-- _part of him_ \--surely he ought to look, surely they belonged to him now too--).  He reached out without thinking.

And _it_ reached back.

A heavy swirl of energy, red as the blood that had made it.  Like some alchemical concoction of Nott’s, it moved in and out of his own magic without mixing--though its radiance cast a coppery shade whenever it passed close.  It was real. ( _Real._ ) This thing they had done by steel and by blood.  He should have known better--he _had_ known better--and still he had not stopped Fjord.  

Maybe if Fjord hadn’t held out his hand; if he hadn’t run the falchion across his palm like a promise; if he hadn’t looked at Caleb like _that_...

But he had.  And blood magic was not easily undone.

It couldn’t be allowed to remain, to anchor itself between them. Fjord was a private person--no less than himself--and he didn’t deserve to have that privacy invaded by one reckless choice. (He didn’t even use his own voice--to have his _emotions_ unwillingly displayed was beyond allowance.  This was Caleb’s “sort of thing” after all; he would find a way to end it.

Sensing his thoughts, the pact anchor flared like a stoked fire.  It was connected to him--he need not act for it to know his intention--and in a flash it raced to its source (the safety of an open wound). He held the image of it in his mind’s eye, keeping the magic manifest--that was the key.  You had to treat it as something tangible, _malleable_.  Between one breath and the next he tied the knot fast behind his palm and the wards slammed down.  Gone were the emotions layering over his--relief, worry, (surprise?)--and the wild static of foreign spellwork.  Only silence remained; and the hot pulse of stifled magic in his palm.

“---aleb?”

He blinked, and his mind was back with his body--Fjord leaning curiously into his personal space.  He’d missed what the warlock had asked, but some part of his half-present mind had registered that they’d reached the Squall Eater. (He had one hand on the rope).

“Mm?”

“I was askin’ if you were alright,” Fjord repeated.  His hair hung low over his forehead, a bead of water dripping down the side of his face. Caleb traced its path, focusing there rather than meet Fjord’s gaze.

“I should be asking you that,” he countered, voice low.  Out of the corner of his eye he saw ( _saw, not felt_ ) Fjord’s hand flex, and his own cut palm throbbed in sympathy.  “Concerning Vandran, I mean.”

“Right.” It seemed to take Fjord a moment to gather himself.  “T’be honest, I think part of me thought we’d find him down there.”

Caleb hummed. The thought had certainly crossed his own mind. “Do you believe he still lives?”

Fjord looked back over the expanse of water.  The long stretch towards the horizon was broken only by the faint jut of the Bisaft Isles. “I do.”

“Then we will find him.” Caleb couldn’t quite meet his eyes, but he offered a small smile, “We are pirates, after all.”

“What are you two dooooing?”

Both men jumped.  Craning their necks back, they looked up to find Jester hanging over the ship’s rail.  Her clothes were as bedraggled as theirs and her hair was threatening to drip down on them, but none of that had dampened her spirits. “We are about to leave you down there, you know?”

“Hold on a tick, Jester--”

But Caleb was already climbing the ladder, and whatever Fjord might have said in that moment was lost.

 

_(“We understand each other.”)_

 

The throb in Caleb’s palm had grown into a dull pain, was growing still.  On a surface level, the rough hemp of the rope was hell on the cut skin, but the true pain ran deeper--a flow of magic dammed up, beating like a storm against the temporary wards he’d put in place.  It was a relief when Jester helped haul him over the rail.

“Hey Caleb,” Beau’s loud voice cut across the deck, startling him.  She was frowning. “You alright, man? You look kinda seasick--you’re not gonna be sick are you?”

“No, I--I am fine. Please excuse me.”

He could feel more than just Beau’s eyes on him, but he kept his head down and pushed his way through the crush of the crew.  They were running to and fro, hauling ropes and loosening the sails; readying to make way. Good. The faster they were gone from this place, the better they--he-- _Caleb_ would feel.

 

~

 

He closed the door behind him as soon as he was inside his cabin--the sounds of the ship and her crew gone muted and distant. In that illusion of privacy, his body went through the usual motions (even as he bent all his concentration inward to maintain the temporary knot).  The door he locked and bolted; around the room went the silver thread. Necessary precautions, that could only divert him from the inevitable for so long before, finally, there was nothing to do but look. Beneath the afternoon light coming in strong through the porthole window, he opened his fist.

Jester had cast her healing magic over them in the Diver’s Grave; he’d felt it, even as the water clouded with their blood.  His and Fjord’s. She _had_ healed them. And yet.  In his palm, a red and angry eye split the skin.

“Bren...you utter fool.”

  
_"I'm following your lead here."_ (Caleb squared his shoulders; forced his thoughts (his own words away).  They would not serve him in this task -- this magic he was about to attempt.) 

What many practitioners of the arcane didn’t realize was that most of the pomp was unnecessary. Components, yes--it was impossible to make something out of nothing, regardless of the caster’s strength of will or experience--but the rest? The circles, the runes, every somatic gesture and incantation were psychosomatic. A visual representation to affix their concentration on. The more complex the spell, the harder it was to manifest by will alone.

Caleb didn’t need the circle.  He made it anyway.

The calming scratch of the chalk, the repetition of runes settled the shake in his hands. Grounding runes. Runes for balance.  And for warding. The soft curve of reflection, infinitely looping to keep the contents of the circle _in_ the circle.  It would be just large enough for him to sit cross-legged in the center and not have the juts of his knees cross the barrier.

He pulled off his coat and laid it over the bed. Next came his books, unbuckled and placed reverently atop the neatly tucked sheets, holsters and all. (Even words carried a faint magical aura, a spell book intentionally scribed by ink and intent...it wouldn’t do to have any wisp of interference or distraction.) Then he sat in the center of the circle and closed the remaining inch with chalk, a softly-muffled quiet settling over him when he did.

Inside the confines of the runes, Caleb set to work:

Mote by mote he built strings of magic, those strings weaving together into a latticed net. Wider and wider he wove it, until he could cast it over the pact (red lancing throughout). There was so much to cover.  Even in the short time between its discovery and now, it had begun to unravel the knot he’d made in it. To _spread_.  Curious and slippery.  It was painstakingly delicate work, and only when he was certain that his net had encircled all the scattered pieces did he begin slowly drawing it in.

He pulled the net taut--and let it _bloom_. Lines expanded and blurred, holes in the network disappearing as his magic fused together, sealing the pact inside. (It was over so quickly) He tested the bonds, the new impenetrable knot.  A faint, pleading whine sounded--far off and away. But that was all.

It was bound to him now; _his_ burden to bear...

 

**BANGBANGBANG!**

His eyes flew open; back in the cabin again.

“Open the damn door, Caleb--I swear to god--”

Every joint screamed in protest as he unfolded himself from the floor.  The decking was cold and unforgiving; next time he would put down a blanket, perhaps. Or his coat.

“CALEB--”

“ _Ja, ja_ ,” he called and was surprised at the scratch in his throat. He rubbed gingerly at it, forcing his aching limbs into motion and stepping over the silver thread to unlock the door. “There is no need to yell, Beauregard.”

The monk loomed in the doorway. “You look like shit.”

“Thank you,” he murmured. “What time is it?”

“Breakfast time, champ.”

Caleb blinked. “Pardon?”  

“Did you really sleep through the whole storm?” ( _Storm?_ ) Apparently, his expression was answer enough--whatever Beau saw, she made a face in response and cut a negating hand between them. “Never mind.  I don’t need to know all your weird shit. C’mon.”

He flexed his hand, felt the pull on his stiff tendons and the sting of scabbed over skin.  Hours poured into spellwork; time his mind had lost. He should have been exhausted. But beyond the aches sustained from prolonged sitting--he felt none of the weariness that usually came with spellcrafting.  In fact, he felt more alert than he had when he’d begun.

Beau had not budged an inch. While she might happily indulge in their familiar banter, she was clearly on a mission.  He cleared his throat. “Breakfast?”

“Yeah,” she drawled, arms folded. “Family meeting.”  

She wasn’t going to move until he did, that much was clear. So Caleb sighed and stepped out into the hall, closing the door carefully behind him.  There would be time for introspection later (and research and worry); for now the bond was quiet, and he let Beau push him down the hall towards the galley and the sounds of their companions.


	2. Chapter Two

Fjord didn’t make it easy.

 

Not a day later, they discovered a stowaway, got overly curious, and entered a pocket dimension full of temptations and trials both.  The library alone was enough to set Caleb’s mind tumbling away into fantastical possibilities--what wonders had been filed away by a person powerful enough (or rich enough) to craft something as intricate and arcane as the clockwork orb. A chamber seventy feet tall, each wall lined by multiple bookcases, each with a dozen shelves, repeated on each level--he couldn’t stop the eager, subconscious whirl of arithmetic even as the sight pulled him inexorably closer. There were _so many books_.  

And a mimic. And all those books. And--the sound of glass shattering.  

The noise vibrated out, overlaying itself like an echo made in a deep cavern. Caleb spun--a superhuman feat of will to pull his attention from where Nott was grappling with the animated cabinet--in time to watch the last glittering shard of glass settle back into the window, restoring the mosaic of the planes.  

“Where’s Fjord?”

The question ricocheted in his brain, an errant burst of lightning unable to find a grounding point. The half-orc was gone.

Jester was beside herself; all but wailing Fjord’s name as she searched the floor, the walls, the ladder even.  Beau--Beau was fixated on the glass, as certain as Caleb was when he arrived that it was the key to Fjord’s disappearance.  The guilt he could read, even in her focused intent, would have been undetectable were it not so clearly a mirror of his own.

Red pulsed in his chest--lower than his heart, but no less frantic.  Magic. The swell of it, hot like magma, straining at the impossibly thin threadwork of the net he’d bound it in.  He struggled to breathe normally; to ignore the wild magic that needed only his attention to break loose. Panic was setting in, crushing his chest inward while the bond pushed outward.  

He searched the immaculate window, hands skittering over the panes without touching.  The Ethereal, the four Elementals, the Astral--diamonds and sapphires and rubies; he memorized the layout instantly.  There had to be a clue, had to be something-- _why hadn’t Beau been watching? Why hadn’t he?_ \--Fjord must have left some sign.  Copper and salt burned in Caleb’s throat. The need to find Fjord was so great he almost dropped the wards himself.

(In the end, it would have saved time).

~ ~ ~  
  


The meeting with the mage in the Tide Peak had gone far better than Caleb had expected; particularly after Caduceus and Beau had gone in alone.  Unlike Nott’s rather unkind assessment of Beau’s “abrasive” communication skills, Caleb trusted the monk. Brash to be sure, but with a compass that invariably pointed towards progress.  Truth be told, it was Caduceus that had carried a majority of his concerns. The firbolg had more than proven himself over the last few months, and there was a calm, almost sedative quality to his presence that was, at times, a balm to the wizard’s fraught anxieties.  But as often as Beauregard’s compass pointed to the right (if _rough_ ) path, the cleric’s had a tendency to veer towards the troublingly forthright.

It was a relief when Yussa summoned them all inside.

It was something else entirely when they were offered the teleportation sigil--and for a moment, Caleb wasn’t sure if the hunger he saw in Fjord’s eyes was Caleb’s or his own.

~

“Did we really need to give him the thing?” Nott bemoaned. Caleb had reconvened with the others at the foot of the Tide Peak, and while much had been gained --information, magical access, and a tentative ally--the party’s resident rogue was focused on the absence of the happy fun ball.  Beau looked down over her crossed arms, one eyebrow lifting.  
  
“The pocket dungeon of an unknown and potentially-still-alive fuck-wizard?”

“It. Made. _Money!_ ” each word was punctuated by a forceful clap, Nott’s small face pained by the loss.  “Real money, Beau. Shiny, shiny gold money.”

Beau rolled her eyes. “We can get more money.”

“We _had_ money!” the goblin screeched.  Much had changed over the last few months--particularly for Nott, but enough, Caleb was pleased to see, remained the same.

 

“How would it work?”  

Caleb turned away from their bickering to find Fjord had fallen into step beside him.  He knew what he meant of course--there’d be no mistaking his interest in what Yussa had offered them.  He matched his pace to Fjord’s automatically, noting with mild intrigue that it slowed them enough for the others were pulling ahead, but he wasn’t concerned.

With one last fond look towards Nott and Beau (arms flailing and crossed, respectively, as they continued to debate), Caleb shrugged. “It is a long way off, whatever Jester may have said.”

Fjord snorted, and Caleb looked up in surprise. “You gonna tell me you weren’t gonna go straight to your room and start working on it?”

Caleb’s cheeks flushed.  The denial was on the tip of his tongue, but they’d agreed--in their own convoluted way--not to lie to one another. ( _“We’ll make it work.”_ )  He ducked his head and tried to unstick his tongue.

“Mind if I sit in?”

Looking up at Fjord through the hair that had fallen into his eyes, Caleb swore he saw the faintest shadow of green across the half-orc’s cheeks.  He’d said it casually enough--so casually that, had Jester been there to overhear it, she might have been encouraged to think it a request of something _else_ \--but Caleb knew Fjord; knew him in a way that sometimes surprised him, that sometimes felt too close to home.  Fjord was genuinely curious about the spell, and about magic in general--seeking out any answers to the intense powers that had been thrust upon him.  And Caleb knew it had taken no small amount of courage to ask.

Summoning up his own, he clapped his hand on Fjord’s shoulder in a way he’d never done outside of scouting with Frumpkin. It landed a bit awkwardly, but the smile he gave was small and genuine. “It would be my pleasure.”  
 

“It had a DRAGON IN IT!”  
“Just _one_ \--!”  
 

Caleb frowned--the sight of the blue dragon overlaying his vision of the cheery Nicodranas streets.  He remembered everything--exactly as it had been, without exaggeration or polish--and he knew their victory had had little to do with skill and almost everything to do with luck.  One misstep, one missed shot and Jester--- _Nott_ , could’ve--

The thought, half-formed, clenched around his heart--an unthinkable (unrecoverable) loss. But Fjord was chuckling beside him, so he forced himself to relax, pretended his memories of the fight were as clouded by time and outcome as the others.  They’d won and that must be all that mattered.

“You’ll really be able to bamf us anywhere?”

“In theory.” Caleb’s mouth quirked as he added, “Anywhere in Exandria.”

“Ahh,” Fjord grinned, and the sight caused a not unpleasant warmth to spread across Caleb’s chest. “No jaunts to the Nine Hells, hm?”

“A different spell,” he confirmed, not a bit longingly.  It wasn’t entirely out of his arcane discipline, but the effort it would take to acquire would be more than worth the power and opportunities it would provide.  “But one day.” He lifted one shoulder in an impassive shrug and was rewarded with the shocked rise of Fjord’s brow.

“Yeah?”

“ _Ja_.”

~

They passed the late hours of the afternoon together in the fine accommodations of the chateau. Caleb pulled the transportation circle from his sharp memory and sketched it perfectly for Fjord to see, every whorl and line.  Not with his fine inks and papers, of course--the circle itself was not the spell, merely one of countless destinations that he would one day conjure a map towards--but Fjord poured over it nonetheless (before Caleb reclaimed the parchment and feed it to the fire).  

He asked questions: how big did it need to be, how permanent--would ink or chalk suffice, or did it need to be carved?--could it be ‘locked’?  Caleb answered what he knew for certain and debated the rest; Fjord was an eager participant, and what nuances he lacked from improper training he made up for in creativity.  He offered answers no Soltryce mage would have considered because it ran contrary to their training, but as an outsider he reminded Caleb of what was possible if you had the mind for it. (And the nerve.)

He had not been exaggerating when he’d told Fjord the transportation spell was a long way off, but when he at last had the power to acquire it, they would need a circle of their own--another endpoint on the map he alone could navigate.  So, with Fjord’s questions in mind, Caleb set to work. At some point Fjord left, returning a few minutes later with dinner. And all the while Caleb sketched and sketched. Most of the time he remembered he had an audience and would explain each rune’s purpose, how the configuration of one to the other could augment or shield its respective conjurations.  Sometimes he’d say nothing at all as he bent over his work--sigils half-transcribed and tossed aside--but Fjord didn’t seem to mind. (And when Fjord asked about the sigils for warding, Caleb’s voice didn’t once shake.)

**~ ~ ~  
**

Any time he was able, Caleb sought answers.  In each new town, he canvassed the bookshops, the libraries, the archives.  For the latter, Beauregard was particularly helpful, and she rarely inquired as to why he was looking for such rare and heavily guarded tomes; as she put it, the chance to annoy the Cobalt Soul was reason enough to help him.

 

_\--mages who have attempted to gather a vast amount of power through blood are torn asunder by the unpredictable nature of what is forbidden and unnatural.  The practice of sacrificial magic has been banned throughout Exandria since---_

 

He took notes--not in Common, of course.  ‘Old habits die hard,’ as they said, and while he had lately taken great pains to be forthcoming and generous with his information and his identifications, this was _personal_ (more or less) and required the secrecy his former self had been so adept at.  Apart from Yasha, no one else in the party knew Celestial (it was a _beast_ to learn) and he felt confident that the barbarian wasn’t the type to go rooting through others belongings; however, he interspersed Sylvan throughout his notes as well (unknown to all of them, but analogous enough to Elvish that any half-present mind would be able to piece a rough translation together).  He filled pages and pages with this cobbled cypher--his own shorthand and notations further complicating matters.

 

_The first successful bonded-blade was created by the sorceress Mykantha, who forged the blade for seven days and nights and tempered the steel by plunging the sword into the heart of her beloved wife--_

 

He had been hyper aware of the half-orc--particularly at the start.  Sometimes, halfway across town and sequestered amongst dusty books and barren halls, was the only time he felt free of the sensation.  Proximity, he noted early on (in Sylvan), only heightened the symptoms.

 

_\--not to be confused with a life debt--already rare and almost unrecorded throughout history.  Blood magic is believed to be entirely parasitic in nature, though no evidence is left to--_

 

The first dream he had passed off as trifling; his subconscious attempting to make sense of the connection, of _Fjord_.  It was certainly far from being the first instance his sleeping mind had found Fjord a worthy subject to dwell on.

After the fourth he resolved, a bit uncomfortably, to record those as well.

 

_\--both subjects were destroyed in the attempt, further testing by the Truscan military was discontinued----‘it was like they were both lit up from the inside--melting and burning, and...oh god..’ the battalion’s commanding officer was reported as saying; describing the experiment as a ‘horror’--_

 

 _Volatile._ _Consumptive._       _Deadly._

 

Some nights it was a wonder Caleb ever fell asleep at all.

**~ ~ ~  
**   


It should have been like any other fight.

Battle was when he was the most conscious of the bond, of the absolute necessity in keeping the wards in place.  What little the warlock had divulged of his arcane abilities, it was abundantly clear that his magical reserves were limited and finite. If Caleb were to accidentally siphon some of that magic...Fjord would be nothing but a man with a sword, at the mercy of whatever beast or bandit they faced. And that--that didn’t bear thinking about.

While a number of spells required his full attention in order to maintain, the wards were different.  What had started off as a constant, jittering hyper-awareness had softened over time into something of a low-level buzz.  It hummed, always, just behind his jaw--like the hint of electricity in the teeth after a lightning strike. Maintaining it was second-nature.  He only became conscious of it on slow days, when his mind was unburdened long enough to wander, or when he happened to catch eyes with Fjord and--like responding to like--the bond would flare up from his palm like a scorching ray, the hum evolving into an orchestra.  Plaintive and heartsick.

It was a glancing blow, the mace catching mostly in his coat--but it was enough to break his concentration: Slow dropped. The rest of the goon’s gang broke from their malaise.  They raged down upon the group--none of whom were prepared for the sudden shift of odds--and Caleb fell to one knee, throwing up a shield spell against his bandit’s second swing.  The mace rebounded, casting arcane sparks, and then--an aborted gurgle of sound. The curved shine of a blade protruded from the bandit’s chest. He fell forward off the sword with a sick squelch, and there was Fjord, reaching down to steady him.

Caleb tried to wave him off, his breath catching. “Help B---”

“‘Help Beau,’ I know,” Fjord cut in, hauling him to his feet and turning him round. “You got Jes.”

Fjord got him to his feet and then he was off again, dashing towards the monk now beset on both sides.  Caleb’s arm ached--not from the mace, though there would be blood aplenty--but from the burn of Fjord’s hands where he’d touched him.  He grit his teeth, summoning up the massive cat’s paw as he ran; it burst out of the earth behind Jester, blocking the bandit about to strike at her unsuspecting back.  The man screamed as the arcane claws raked across him, a match to Caleb’s grim satisfaction; one down, one to go. And then--a surge of pride and a whoop of triumph, both disorientingly foreign.

_The wards._

Caleb staggered.  He’d lost hold of them.

He pulled on his magical reserves, sharp and instinctive.  Unworked, unshaped magic rolled out in a golden wave to try and smother the pact.  Red scattered like pollen on the wind; if it had been a tangible thing at all, it would have risen through his skin like blood, visible to the entire party. As it was, all they saw was Caleb crying out in pain, his hand clamping down on his forearm like a vice.  He could smell the ocean.

“Caleb?” Jester’s soft hands fluttered over his shoulders, carrying the faint smell of jasmine. “What’s wrong, _Cay_ leb?”

“‘m fine,” he grit out.  Consciousness split, he made an abortive gesture with his arm to assure her while he sealed the sheet of magic over what he’d caught and nailed it down.  He felt dizzy.

“What’s the matter with Caleb?” Fjord.   _Fresh off his victory--the killing blow an elegant upward motion.  How shocked the bandit had looked when he’d parried, turning the two-handed swing aside and thrusting upward---_ Caleb slammed the magical shield down with an anvil of force and watched Fjord take an abrupt and uncertain step back.  

Quiet.

How much had managed to slip through?  He didn’t dare look at Fjord--whatever had happened in that brief moment, whatever had _crossed_ , looking at the other man would only confirm it, surely.  Better to not. His fingers ached as he peeled them back from his arm; show the audience what they expect, not what is true--that’s how the con worked.

“I am fine,” he repeated, even offered a wan smile to Jester and patted one of her hands.  “Thank you, Jester.”

The fretful expression melted away into a pleased grin--the young tiefling downright eager to have her concerns so easily resolved.  Her friend was fine, the group was fine--all was right in the world and this would just be another ‘silly’ battle to tell the Traveller about tonight in her prayers.  And Caleb loved her for it; for how terribly _good_ she was.

What was (hopefully) silence on Fjord’s end, was chaos on Caleb’s.  The wrangled bond battered against its net, against the spindle of Caleb’s magic--causing it to spark and spin unevenly. It felt a little like being drunk. Now, everything was trying to get out, his own confusing thoughts and feelings rebounding.  In strong-arming the blood pact into submission, he’d blocked his own magical outlet, like a branch damming a river. The usual golden ebb and flow managed to trickle through in places, in infinitesimal gaps, but more of it kept building, like a pressure valve that hadn’t been released. It made him feel sick.  He’d need to entire night to redo what some half-witted bandit had unknowingly sundered.

“Maybe it’s best if we all turn in for the evening?” Caduceus suggested with his usual benign, unfathomable smile. “Get ourselves a nice rest, hm?”

No one disagreed, and--after securing what little coin the bandits had on their persons (none of their gear was in any kind of decent shape, let alone magical)--the party trudged back into the city proper, and to their rented rooms.  

~

Unlike the first time, it did not take an entire evening for Caleb to restore the wards around the blood pact.  It did, however, take several hours and nearly all the magic he had left.

Over the last few weeks, he’d checked in almost nightly--usually once Fjord was asleep--to patch any holes that had begun to wear away under the continual pressure of the magic to break free and to ensure, in his own particular brand of masochism, that Fjord remained completely cut off from him.  He was intimately familiar with his own mind--could project himself there with a moment’s thought. So every night, he would materialize inside himself, tired and dirty, and walk the line. It wasn’t really there, of course; _he_ wasn’t really there either.  But in the same way that manifesting magic in the immaterial gave the mind something to fix on, Caleb could only process the strange effects the pact was having on him if they were made tangible.  The red, the golden net, and--stretching out from its prison--a line of scorched earth in the dark.

The line ended in a wall.  Eighty, ninety, a hundred feet up--and further.  It shone like obsidian, even in the lightless dark of Caleb’s self.  Yet, no matter how close he stood, there was no reflection of himself in the gleaming surface.  No cracks, no sound--everything that was intrinsically, personally, _(perfectly)_ Fjord was contained wholly on the other side.  With Fjord. Where it belonged.

He walked the line again tonight.  It was the same as it had ever been, for he’d never tried to follow the path when the bond was open, and he stood at the foot of the wall, the toes of his immaterial boots not quite touching.   _Want_ \--inexplicable and burning, rose in him.  

 _It’s not fair_ \--the words whispered in a hundred different voices; none of them, all of them his own.  Without knowing why, he laid his palm against the polished surface--touching the wall for the first time.  It was cool to the touch, so he laid his cheek against it. He was always warm, always burning--in every life, under every name--but here, now, the fire in him settled. Banked to embers.  He closed his eyes. The relief he felt was absolute; when he inhaled, that too was calm and easy--no shudder of panic or fear. With his eyes closed he could almost imagine a breeze, gently moving across his face.

What if…

_“aren’t you the least bit curious?”_

...what if he just--

 

“Caleb…?”

He snapped back to his body with jarring force.

Nott was standing in the doorway.

She was the only one capable of slipping the net he’d crafted around the library; the only one the spell _would_ allow--and in his haste (his franticness to reset the wards before Fjord--before anyone could find out), he’d almost... _forgotten_.  

“Nott.” It was hard to breathe.

She took a cautious step into his room, her eyes wide and luminous as they took in far more than he’d ever wanted her to see.   “What are you--what is all this?”

Caleb looked around at the circle of sand and gems as if seeing them for the very first time.  It was...incriminating, to be sure. His was a magic of paper and ink, of components small enough to be kept in a leather waist pouch.   _This_ was…

“I can explain.”

“You’re bleeding.”

Caleb looked down at his hand, though he knew full well what Nott was talking about. (It was as if he couldn’t help being surprised by himself, couldn’t help looking). The whole of his palm was smeared red, the slice across it broken open.  It stung from exposure and the tacky pull of the bandages when he’d undone the wrappings.

“I think you had better sit down…”

Nott frowned, her sharp eyes taking in more of the room and its contents (Caleb wringing his hands).  She made a wide loop around the circle of sand and its unfamiliar runes, now smudged and distorted, but climbed up onto the chair beside him all the same.  “This is…” she tried to find the words, only to end up with “this is some serious shit, Caleb!”

“I will try--try to explain.” She’d caught him off guard--something rather difficult to do--and he was struggling to find a path through this conversation that ended anywhere but at the truth. “It’s, well, it’s the law of equal exchange, you know? You cannot create something from nothing--”

“Course you can! I get something from nothing all the time.”

“No, that is--hmm.” Caleb rubbed at his forehead. “You know there are different types of magic, yes?”

Nott leveled a look at him and Caleb’s expression turned sheepish.  “Of course,” he amended. “What I mean to say is--is each requires something different of its caster, yes?  Some--like our friends--receive a boon from their gods. Others act in accordance with nature, channeling the energies that permeate all life.”

“Like Nila?”

“Exactly. You and I, we use materials--words.  We pull magic from objects -- a copper wire for messages, a cocoon to change form--”

“Poop,” Nott supplied and Caleb chuckled, despite himself.  

“Yes, that too,” he affirmed. “When it’s called for. The point is--no wire, no message.”

“But not everyone can do what you do, Caleb,” Nott insisted.  “It took you ages to teach me how to do that, but you’ve got _real_ power.”

The compliment pained him. “Thank you, Nott,” he said quietly. “But there are forces beyond my abilities, magic that doesn’t--that goes _beyond_ materials, and I--I’m afraid I’ve gone and made a mistake.”

The words--so foreign and incomprehensible to the goblin--didn’t seem to register properly; Nott started to shake her head and did not stop, her small hands closed over one of his.  “Impossible,” she whispered.

“When we were in Dashilla’s Lair--with the stone altar and the...the blood? Fjord and I, we--we...” The words themselves were not difficult, and yet Caleb found himself trailing off--hoping somehow, miraculously, in her own way, Nott would just _know_ and he wouldn’t have to actually give voice to what he’d done.

“You guys were acting really weird,” Nott offered into the lull, the creak of her voice more pronounced as she tried for levity. “--and you made Jester use her healing.  She _hates_ that--”

“It was a blood pact.”

Nott’s eyes went wide, unblinking.  Caleb waited for her to laugh it off, to discount it--to ask _are you sure_?  It would be the reasonable response.

“What do we do?”

Caleb felt an immeasurable swell of fondness for the goblin. _What do we do_ .  So simple and earnest in the face of this unfathomable task.  He didn’t know how to put it all into words--his appreciation, his gratitude, his _relief_ \--so he leaned forward instead and pulled her into a fierce hug.  This too felt like the old them--before Veth and Bren, before the others.  It steadied him: her fond huff; the feel of her claws, running softly through his hair.

Then she pulled back, a determined slant to her face.  “Well then?”

Caleb shrugged. “Blood pacts are old magic.” And old meant _stubborn_ . _Difficult_.  He’d been working on it, of course--but he needed more than village histories and backwater libraries.  “Some, like a life debt expire when the terms are met--”

“So, that’s good right?” she cut in hopefully. “You help each other and it’s over, right?”

“You were there, Nott.” In the deep-dark of the Diver’s Grave, a mile beneath the sun and sky. All that water. “‘ _Always’._ ”

That was what Fjord had said.  And _he_ had sealed it--clasped Fjord’s bloody hand in his own, because to not take it had felt impossible.

“It’s not so bad that it’s him, issit?”

“No,” Caleb breathed, his mind already pulling images from his memory.  Fjord summoning his falchion. Fjord standing watch in the long night, lit orange and shadowed by the low campfire.  Fjord looking back from the front of the wagon, a laugh crinkling the edges of his eyes, his mouth…

“And _yes_ .”  He buried his face in his hands. He had _wanted_ , so badly--and now?  He’d been a fool--impulsive--to even _think_ that...but he had.  He had been the one standing with Fjord across the altar with its carvings and aged blood, close enough to see the gleam in his eyes, the way his mouth moved around the anticipation.  Around the question. And Caleb? He’d tried to shape himself into the answer. Damning them both.

After a moment, he felt Nott’s small hand on his back.

“You can do better than him.”

Caleb couldn’t help but laugh, ragged as it sounded.

“For a lot of reasons, obviously--he’s mean, he’s _too_ tall--not very good at magic, let’s be honest…”

“Nott…”

But she had already warmed to her subject. “Just the worst. He likes _water_ \--”

“There is a point to all this, _ja_ ?”

“Aren’t you listening? My point is he’s terrible.  I want to be very clear about that: really, really terrible--at a fundamental level.”

“Yes, I believe your reasons for finding him disagreeable are quite clear.”

“And because anyone worth you would have done something already.”

Caleb blinked. “Excuse me?”

“He likes you.” Nott twisted the edge of her cloak in her hands.  “His face always goes funny when he talks about you.”

“How--”

“I’m a goblin, I’m not _blind_ ,” she blurted out. “We should get _your_ eyes checked.  All these late nights reading books, no wonder you--”

“ _How long?_ ”

Every word felt impossible to utter; it was a wonder he managed two, but Nott (always) understood. “After Mol--after _Lorenzo,_ I think?” she said, her brow furrowed beneath the wild tangle of her hair. “After we rescued them.”

Caleb considered this. “Fjord--he didn’t think we would come.”

Nott shook her head. “I don’t think Yasha did either.”

“I…” Caleb trailed off, old shame rising.  Nott covered his hand with hers and the sight of it, green and clawed and _familiar_ , was a comfort.

“ _I_ didn’t think we would either,” she finished; and he knew she was speaking for both of them.  Who they had been. “But we did, Caleb. We saved our friends.”

“We didn’t run.”

Nott grinned--all teeth. “We don’t really do that anymore.”

“ _Nein_ ,” he agreed, softly. “We do not.”

It had been some time--a _long_ time--since it had just been the pair of them.  And he knew the others, knew them _truly_ now, even if some of them still held their secrets as close to their chest as he, and he trusted them with his life.  But Nott was Nott. Small, irascible--incorrigible when drunk--and the first real friend Caleb had ever known. Her fierce loyalty had never wavered; even now.

“All the same.” He paused for a steadying breath.

As before, Nott guessed at his intentions before he could finish voicing them.  “They might be able to help?” she offered. Her nose wrinkled as the thought continued. “I mean, not Beau--she’d probably just yell--but Mr. Clay…maybe?”

For all her gruffness, Beau was probably the one _most_ likely to be able to help him, given her breadth of obscure knowledge and her ability to access more.  He’d considered it. Several times. Just blurting out the reason for all his requests, for the late nights in every Cobalt-run archive. But the yelling--that was spot on. “Promise me--you will not tell the others? Not even Jester.”

Nott’s concerned expression didn’t change, but there was no hesitation. “I promise.”

He made a poor attempt to smile--Nott really was a marvel--but it ended up looking more stricken than hopeful. “ _I have to fix this._ ”

“I know.”

Caleb was tired.  Rubbing his hand across his mouth, he felt the weight settling back across his bones; in the end, no lighter for having been shared with Nott.  If anything, a fresh veneer of guilt now overlaid the rest. Only time would tell if his choices had been the right ones. His intentions were good, of course, but they were also selfish (of course)--and he knew, better than anyone, that intention made a spell stick but mattered little in life.

“It’s late.”

Caleb came back from his thoughts, blinking down at Nott. “ _Ja._ ” He tipped his head, rueful and familiar enough that Nott clicked her tongue in exasperation.  With her usual brand of aggressive care, she pushed him out of his chair and towards the door. And Caleb allowed himself to be pushed.  “Yes,” he agreed. “It is late.”


	3. Chapter Three

 

For all that his keen mind allowed him, it could be as much a curse as a gift. Once a seed had been planted, there was nothing that would uproot it. He couldn’t unhear what Nott had told him-- _He likes you_ \--even knowing it meant little coming secondhand, that Fjord couldn’t possibly...

_His face goes all funny when he talks about you._

Caleb caught sight of his reflection in the battered metal mirror that hung over the room’s water basin and sighed. He’d have to keep control of his own face if he was going to continue to entertain such notions. He splashed his face, the water still icy from the night, and rubbed roughly at the softness sleep had left behind. Jester would certainly insist on a trip to the baths as soon as they reached a proper town, but such measures would have to do for now. After a momentary hesitation, he ran a hand across his coat as well--invisible motes of his magic binding to dirt and dust and whisking most of it away. An unfamiliar reflex almost turned him back to the mirror, but he twisted away at the last moment--confused and annoyed in equal measure--grabbing his scarf as he hurried from the room.

The morning was well underway for the inn and its patrons as he descended the stairs in search of his compatriots. Despite his tendency to rise at dawn, Caleb’s sleep had been troubled, broken by fragments of dreams that had slipped away as soon as his eyes opened. Without an immediate threat at hand, and with the rare luxury of four walls and a roof, the wizard had kept abed longer than usual. Caduceus and Nott hadn’t reached the common room yet, but the others were gathered around the remains of breakfast--toast crumbs and the faint smell of bacon. Caleb hesitated on the threshold--one foot still on the stairs. Like any other whim, he carefully assessed and analyzed the inclination to pause there, before rationalizing it as a moment to collect himself, off-put as he was by poor sleep.

“--gonna check in with Bryce,” Beau was saying. Her feet were kicked up on the top of the table in defiance of any polite social norms, arms folded behind her head.

“Ooo, I _love_ Bryce,” Jester’s voice carried. “They were so helpful the last time we were here even though they seemed like suuuper tired, and I really hope they managed to take a nap or something, you know?”

“I mean--it’s been weeks, Jes,” Beau pointed out sardonically. “I’m pretty sure they’ve slept.”

“Oh. Well good!”

Beau tipped her chin at Fjord. “What about you?”

Fjord shrugged. “Spose I’ll tag along with the others. Keep ‘em out of trouble.” He popped the last bit of bacon into his mouth, wiping his hands on his trousers and pushing back from the table to stand. “Odds are Caleb’s in a fix for more of that fancy paper and ink.”

And Caleb watched the way the half-orc’s mouth curled around his name.

He swallowed. Felt it bump against a thread of his magic that had unspooled, nervous and warm. Then he stepped deliberately into view, tightening his scarf a little higher around his throat.

“Finally!” Jester exclaimed, throwing her hands in the air. Her bright face was animated, moving with more energy for the early hour than the rest of them combined. “We are going shoppiiing.”

Of course they were; it would have been foolish to pass up the opportunity, he told himself, even in a town as small as Alfield. Yet, even as he thought the words, his eyes were seeking green. Fjord had turned with the rest of the group at the wizard’s arrival and Caleb’s vision filled with him. Sleep had lost all hold on the half-orc. Awake and bright-eyed, he leaned easily against the edge of the table, his arms folded comfortably over his chest, the steady lines of his face shaped around a laugh as Beau muttered something inaudible over Jester’s litany of all the places she wanted to go.

Caleb was staring. He knew, logically, that he was, and yet he couldn’t find it in him to stop--not when Fjord returned his gaze, face half-turned from Beau and the edges of his eyes crinkling with the warmth of his welcome. _Look away,_ Caleb begged--of himself or Fjord, he wasn’t certain. _Look away, look away, look away, he likes you_. Nott’s voice skated across his thoughts, a page blown over by the wind, and its echo rose high in his throat, faint and in his own breathy voice: I like _him_.

Fjord hadn’t broken eye contact, but his easy humor had shifted to mild intrigue, a quizzical slant to his brow. It was the perfect opportunity to turn away, to wave it off as another one of his social blunders, but--for better or worse--Caleb never had been able to leave well enough alone. He joined the others at their table, the route through the common room an easy enough memory for his feet to follow, but he didn’t once look away. With the distance closing between them, he saw the shift happen--watched as Fjord’s pupils dilated, a sudden intensity to the half-orc’s gaze that sucked all the oxygen out of the room. Caleb’s palm thrummed, his pulse hot and heady in his chest.

_Interesting_ , the traitorous voice inside him supplied. He tore his gaze back at last, his scarf a hot coil around his throat. He smiled down at Jester.

“I do in fact require more supplies,” Caleb confirmed; unsticking his tongue at last. And not entirely a lie. There would always be spells in need of transcription, even if a new one had not crossed their paths in some time. It seemed important to say something, at any rate; Beau was beginning to get suspicious, a deep vee settling between her brows. “And I would like to visit the book shop.”

“Of course,” Fjord said amiably. He was still staring at Caleb; he could sense it in the prickling sensation at the back of his neck. He would have given anything to know his expression in that moment, but something told him if he looked up again, he’d give it all away.

“Lead on.”

Caleb’s mouth moved, trying to find the words--to say _something_ , before he ultimately just nodded sharply and stepped out into the street. Fjord’s voice was a low rumble behind him--a response to someone else, perhaps--and then the half-orc was closing the distance between them in a brief jog.

How many times had Fjord offered to accompany him on similar outings? His ever-keen mind immediately began to supply the answer, but it wasn’t a number that he was looking for. Out in the cool morning air, the heady tension that had filled the inn’s common room ebbed, and Caleb sucked in a steadying breath. He’d let Nott and a lack of sleep muddle his thoughts, betray his better judgment. Whatever he’d hoped-- _wanted_ \--had been compromised by the blood pact.

And yet...

He dug his nails into right palm, into the burning pain of it. Fjord didn’t so much as flinch beside him. The wards were holding. _Which meant_ \--well it meant all sorts of things Caleb wasn’t going to investigate just now. Not in the middle of the street, certainly. But he allowed himself a few covert glances to study his companion’s profile.

It was the same face that had greeted him countless mornings before. Strong-lined, determined. The open air had smoothed away the intensity from before, and he’d lifted his chin faintly towards the yellow-warmth of the sun. Fjord’s hair had grown longer in their travels, but rather than mussing his face the way Caleb often felt his own hair did -- the length added something roguish to his clean-cut appearance. The breeze kept it off his face while Caleb fought to keep his own tucked behind his ears. He’d have to ask Yasha for another trim the next time she found the group.

If Fjord felt his stare he made no sign. Caleb was surreptitious (old habits), but more and more he was discovering hidden depths to the other man. Secrets that weren’t as much about death and dying, empire-wide enemies and the like--but small hidden facets. His sharp senses, but lack of _sense_. He was more in tune with the needs of the group than he liked to let on; but then again, Caleb could understand the instinct to distance oneself. He did it. _Beau_ did it. But they also cared deeply about the group.

The streets were half-full at this hour and the walk was pleasant. The market in the central square had been set up for several hours already and, judging by the stock as they passed, the early risers had already come and gone with their purchases. A jovial man waved large bouquets of flowers--“3 coppers for sweet-smelling blossoms!”--and had stiff competition from the thin woman across the thoroughfare, crying in a heady and raspy voice: “Buns! Biscuits! Apple tarts!”

Fjord perked up beside him; it took only a glance to see what had drawn his attention and only a moment more to change their direction. They weren’t in any rush. “Do you mind?” He asked, heading for the baker’s stall as if it had been his idea. “I haven’t had breakfast, after all.”

“‘Course.”

They strolled into the market, making easy pace amongst the other townspeople. No one gave them much of a second-glance--a luxury Caleb didn’t think he’d ever get used to. If Fjord noticed as well, he didn’t show it. He smiled at the people around them and nodded to the guards stationed at the entrance to the market.

They waited for a woman and her two children to finish their purchases (several of them going straight into the drooling mouths of the young boys), and then stepped up to the stall. Fjord leaned easily against the counter, smile in full force and gave the baker a respectful nod.

“G’Morning, ma’am.”

“Spose it is,” the woman agreed a bit waspishly, and Caleb had to hide his sudden smile in his scarf. “What’ll it be then?”

“I’ll take one of your finest apple tarts, and my friend here’ll have…?”

Caleb had already scanned the entire board of chalked-in offerings and quickly supplied: “a honeyed scone, please.”

“And a honeyed scone--please and thank you, ma’am.”

“2 copper.”

Caleb was already reaching for his bag, but Fjord was faster, slapping two coins onto the table with a wink at the woman and a softer, more genuine, smile for Caleb. “My treat.”

“ _Danke_.”

Caleb bit back the argument he might have made. But being poor was nothing new and he had long ago been forced to get over the shame of having less; learned to be grateful rather than defensive for gestures like this. A scone was not all that much, after all. Though, it _did_ smell heavenly as he took it from Fjord with both hands. The woman had wrapped it in thin, waxy paper, the kind that drew in the grease and butter of whatever it was meant to hold. There were lines of honey already running down the folded pocket of paper.

Winter had not properly set in here yet, but it was cold enough that a fresh pastry, still warm from the ovens, was a double-treat. He took a modest bite, and was rewarded with the pleasant-sweet burst of honey.

“Apologies for rushing you out the door,” Fjord added. He bit off the corner of his tart and Caleb watched the steam release into the air.

“Indeed,” Caleb replied, hiding his full mouth behind his hand. “Consider your debt paid.”

The scone _was_ good. He’d always had a soft spot for sweets, for the rare treats that he’d been able to nick and steal away home as a child. The Empire wasn’t known for its patisseries by any stretch, but there was little that couldn’t be improved by a bit of fresh honey.

The pair ate in companionable silence as they walked. They took the longer path now to the bookstore, though it wasn’t truly a hardship. Most of the roads in town were winding and nothing appeared to have been built to a straight line. A few stores he logged away in case of need, but for the most part Caleb ate his breakfast and enjoyed the crisp cool morning.

It was only when they were approaching the bookstore at last that he realized his issue. Namely, that he wasn’t _actually_ in search of fine inks and papers, but rather a certain brand of knowledge that he would very much like to keep away from Fjord’s eyes and Fjord’s awareness. While he pondered this, Fjord’s long stride outpaced him and he jogged up the steps, pulling the door open with a flourish. Caleb followed him up the steps and thanked him absently, still puzzling on how to keep his intentions there private.

“You’re already half-way into the books, aren’t you?”

Caleb turned back--half-guilty, half-surprised. Fjord, however, just shook his head; he seemed to be holding back a smile. “You get a certain look about you when there’s books involved.”

He didn’t know what to say to that, but, thankfully, Fjord was already blazing onward. “S’alright. I figured as much. I’ll stay outta the way and you can, uh, grab me when you head out?”

“Y-You’re sure?”

“Just wanted to stretch my legs, really.”

And then he stepped around the first few bookstacks in the foyer and disappeared. Caleb heard his voice--quieter, but distinctly his own--fading away, probably speaking to the store’s owner. That was good. Caleb didn’t much fancy explaining his needs to the owner either.

He took a breath to steal himself. Then he began to search.

The difficulty, he had found, was that no one had written a book about blood magic in--well, never, in fact. The subject itself had been such a taboo in the Empire proper that it wasn’t talked about, much less put to print. No, if he wanted more information, he would have to go about it in a most un-Zemnian like fashion: sideways.

He moved slowly through the stacks. He was a quick reader, but the light was characteristically dim and he wasn’t looking for something in particular, so much as something that _wasn’t_ there--and, well, finding something that wasn’t there took a bit more time and study. He still made good progress--skipping over the local flora and fauna sections with some confidence. His fingers trailed over the spines as he moved, a tactile move that helped his eyes keep their place as his mind moved around and around the titles (and their absences).

The histories slowed him down. There were only a few--as small towns such as this rarely invested much time and energy into the larger goings-on--but he pulled out each. Three had rough tables of content, but the last was organized by year only; he sat on the floor and began to read.

 

~

 

When at last he’d exhausted every viable book, he had a severe crick in his back and an innate awareness that several hours had passed. He’d found nothing new to further his understanding of the pact bond, and only a vague mention in one of the historical accounts of _“united by blood, they brought their combined forces against the enemy,”_ which he’d ultimately deduced had been about familial alliances rather than illegal blood magic.

It had only been a few weeks, but all the same, it was frustrating to run into another dead-end. Alfield wasn’t a bustling hub of knowledge, but he’d hoped--maybe foolishly--that so close to the capitol, there might have been _something_. The new wards were holding fast, but there was a cost. Every day that they existed, a portion of his magical reserves needed to be siphoned away to contain it, to build the obsidian wall between him and Fjord. Fjord--who hadn’t looked away.

His mind still astir, he emerged from the maze of stacks into the shop’s main room. Fjord was sitting in one of the armchairs that had been stuffed into the only available space between shelves and the front desk. He had a book open in his lap, one hand holding his page and the other propping up his chin. He wasn’t asleep--a fact that both impressed Caleb while simultaneously increasing his guilt.

“Apologies, my friend,” Caleb murmured, unable to look at Fjord when he said it. “I lost track of time.”

“Knew what I was getting into when I tagged along,” Fjord laughed, sitting up and twisting a little to see him. “Found ways to stay busy.”

Caleb followed Fjord’s downward gesture and his eyes lit on a rectangular package tucked beneath the chair. “I took the liberty while you were--- _otherwise engaged_. Figured it made sense to be helpful if I could.”

The wrapping was not see-through, of course, but Caleb knew what it contained all the same. It made his heart do a tremulous turnover in his chest. He licked his lips. Fjord kept talking.

“Though you’d best give a lookover before we get too far, make sure I remembered rightly.” He scratched at his chin--nervous?--and glanced back down at his book. “I’d hate to have gotten it wrong. Make a spell explode or somethin’.”

Caleb forced the words out. “I’m sure it’s fine.” It sounded weak, even to his own ears, but that might have been for all the blood that had rushed to his head. It sounded like waves, crashing against the thought-- _he bought me paper--he bought me paper--he--_

He blinked slowly, quieting the thoughts. “What are you reading?”

And Fjord flushed, doing that thing all bookreaders did when they were reading something they hadn’t quite meant for other people to see: he tucked his finger between the pages and turned it over to look at the cover, like he’d somehow forgotten.

“It’s, uh, a collection of stories? Mr. Handrik at the front recommended it highly.”

“Stories about what?”

“The sea? Sailing adventures, mostly.” He tucked his chin. “Must look the type.”

“You do.”

“...should I be insulted?”

“I meant it as a compliment,” Caleb said. “Truly.”

Fjord grinned. “It felt like one.”

“Good,” he mumbled, his face beginning to burn. “I mean, yes. Yes, good.”

It wasn’t clear how the conversation had so quickly gotten away from him, but Fjord seemed to have a grip on it. His expression at least wasn’t mocking-- _or_ insulted; in fact, he looked rather amused. The half-orc continued to look for a moment longer, though Caleb couldn’t hold his gaze in his embarrassment. Thankfully, the moment faded and Fjord stood, unfolding himself from the small and dowdy armchair with an ease that drew Caleb’s eyes back. He stretched, muscled arms reaching high over his head, and Caleb’s gaze skittered away again.

“Ready to go?” Fjord asked. Caleb nodded, his throat inexplicably too dry to speak, and followed Fjord out into the bright sun of the afternoon.

 


End file.
